“Yes, that will do splendidly. Get some about so long.”
Half an hour's work, and the wounded limb lay cleansed, bandaged, packed in soft moss and bound in splints.
“That's great, Mandy!” exclaimed her husband. “Even to my untutored eyes that looks like an artistic bit of work. You're a wonder.”
“Huh!” grunted the Indian. “Good!” His piercing black eyes were lifted suddenly to her face with such a look of gratitude as is seen in the eyes of dumb brutes or of men deprived of speech.
“Good!” echoed Allan. “You're just right, my boy. I couldn't have done it, I assure you.”
“Huh!” grunted the Indian in eloquent contempt. “No good,” pointing to the man. “Good,” pointing to the woman. “Me—no—forget.” He lifted himself upon his elbow, and, pointing to the sun like a red eye glaring in upon them through a vista of woods and hills, said, “Look—He see—me no forget.”
There was something truly Hebraic in the exultant solemnity of his tone and gesture.
“By Jove! He won't either, I truly believe,” said Allan. “You've made a friend for life, Mandy. Now, what's next? We can't carry this chap. It's three miles to their camp. We can't leave him here. There are wolves all around and the brutes always attack anything wounded.”
The Indian solved the problem.
“Huh!” he grunted contemptuously. He took up his long hunting-knife. “Wolf—this!” He drove the knife to the hilt into the ground.